


One Hundred Days

by yourbuttervoicedbeau (kiwiana)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Drabble Collection, If you're looking for even the barest hint of plot... keep looking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, POV Alternating, Porn Watching, Post-Canon, Sex bloopers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26885866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiwiana/pseuds/yourbuttervoicedbeau
Summary: As the car pulls away, Alexis throws her arms around David with a muffled sob, and Patrick feels his husband’s arm slip off his shoulder as he pulls her into a hug.Snapshots of the first hundred days of David and Patrick's marriage.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 122
Kudos: 347





	One Hundred Days

**Author's Note:**

> Me, just after publishing my 98th Schitt's Creek fanwork on AO3: I feel like I need to do something interesting for #100 but who knows what.  
> kiranerys42: You should do a true drabble for number 100, so it's exactly 100 words.
> 
> I suspect she probably didn't mean for me to do 100 of them, but I am who I am, so. A drabble a day for each of the first hundred days of David and Patrick's marriage. Ten thousand words, zero plot — in other words, the most on-brand thing I've ever done. 
> 
> A huge thank you to midnightstreet who threw a bunch of prompts my way when I started running out of steam around #70 or so! ❤️ 
> 
> (Also, I absolutely repurposed a few three-sentence fics I've written on Tumblr for this, and I'm not sorry.)

As the car pulls away Alexis throws her arms around David with a muffled sob, and Patrick feels his _husband’s_ arm slip off his shoulder as he pulls her into a hug. Behind their backs he catches Stevie's eye — his fellow honorary Rose, though he's sure if he called her that she'd scoff and deflect it — only to see her hastily wipe the back of her hand over her eyes. He reaches out a hand and, though she cuts him a look, she takes it and squeezes after a moment as his other hand comes to David's waist, quietly comforting.

* * *

“I thought you said this wasn't how marriage was going to be.”

Patrick shakes his head with a smile as he hands David one of the glasses in his hand. “Once again, David, this is just leftover champagne.”

“Mm.” David takes a sip before leaning over to kiss his husband, who has slipped back into bed with his own glass. “But aren't we supposed to start our marriage the way we want it to go on?”

“I think that's the new year,” Patrick laughs. “But if you want a preview of our marriage…”

“Yes?”

“Better put down the glass first.”

* * *

“Honey, have you seen my Givenchy sweater?”

He hears the telltale sound of Patrick spitting out his toothpaste before his head pops around the bathroom door. “I’m not great at identifying things by designer, David, but I am pretty sure that describes a quarter of your wardrobe. Want to give me something more to go on?”

“The one with the flowers…” he gestures towards his collarbone as Patrick frowns for a moment before his face clears.

“Oh, I know the one. Yeah, I think that's in one of the boxes that’s going straight to the cottage.”

David sighs. “Ugh, okay.” 

* * *

David stares out the window of the car, unusually subdued.

“I know you're going to miss her,” Patrick says quietly. “We won't leave it too long before we visit, okay?”

David sucks in a breath. “This is the first time she's flown off since…” he trails off, and suddenly Patrick understands.

“This isn't like it was before, David,” he promises. “Alexis is going to be fine.”

David laughs, though it sounds a little wet. “She always is,” he says. There's a long silence before he adds: “It'll be weird not seeing her every day.”

Patrick squeezes his knee. “I know.”

* * *

“Do you have your first aid kit?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yes, David,” he says, but when David just looks at him he reaches into his hiking pack, holding it aloft until David nods, satisfied.

“Are you sure I can't convince you to come with me?” he asks as he carefully returns the kit to its rightful place.

“Mm, unless there’s champagne and cheese I'll pass, thanks.”

“What I’m hearing here, David, is that there _is_ a way to convince you to come on more hikes with me.”

David grins at him. “I mean… I did like the last one.” 

* * *

Patrick knows that marriage is, ultimately, a piece of paper; that the strength of their relationship isn't in the legal designation but in the promises they made and will continue to make to each other. And if David hadn't wanted to get married, that would have been fine. But when David glances up at him from the couch and flashes him a smile, all Patrick can think is _that's my husband,_ and the thought fills him with such joy he's practically giddy with it. He walks over to press his husband slowly back into the cushions, kissing down his throat.

* * *

“So how’s married life treating you boys so far?”

Patrick glances up at Jocelyn’s question just in time to see David’s expression settle somewhere between a grimace and a pained smile. He thinks about walking over, but he’s fielded the same question from Ray and _Bob_ today. It’s definitely David's turn.

“Basically the same as engaged life but with more of this question,” David grits out, and Jocelyn laughs before she leaves with a wave. Once the store is empty David looks over helplessly.

“It’s the first day we're back open, David. People will stop asking.”

David scowls. “They better.”

* * *

“Heather Warner sent us a congratulatory gift basket,” David announces as he enters the store, said basket in hand. Patrick glances up from where he’s leaning on the counter poring over some paperwork.

“Oh, that’s nice of her,” Patrick says. “There are a few others in the back, you can put it with them if you want.”

“A few others?” David walks into the stockroom only to find the table covered in baskets and trays. “These are all from our vendors?” he asks, overwhelmed.

Patrick appears in the doorway with a soft smile. “They’re all really happy for us, David.”

* * *

“Honey, I'm home!”

David looks up from the couch with the kind of scowl that makes Patrick want to kiss it straight off his face. “I’m glad you think you're funny,” he says, but he turns his face up for a kiss.

“I know I’m funny, David,” Patrick replies before hesitating as something permeates his senses. “What smells so good?”

David glances away. “Oh, I opened the slow cooker your aunt Linda gave us for the wedding,” he says awkwardly. “It seemed like a chilli night.”

“You cooked?”

“I threw a few things in a pot,” David shrugs.

“You _cooked_.”

* * *

“Oh, my _god_.”

Patrick’s head whips up at the words. David doesn’t seem upset; the tone is far closer to having heard hot gossip and sure enough, he's staring down at his phone with a delighted grin.

“What's up?” Patrick asks as he turns back to continue restocking the shampoo.

“Huh?” David says absently. “Oh, I’m talking to your mother.”

Patrick freezes. “My mother?”

“Mm. She came across a photo she thought I needed to see.” He turns the phone around to reveal teenage Patrick in his Rose Video uniform.

“Oh, god.”

David smirks. “I think you look very cute.”

* * *

“That sounds nice.”

Patrick's fingers slip over the strings, the noise jarring when compared to the soft chords he was playing when David walked in. He glances up from his seat on the couch, the soft smile he reserves for David widening as he places the guitar carefully on the cushion next to him before he stands up and walks around to greet his husband. His hands slide around David's waist, David's arms looping over his neck as he leans in. It's a position they've found themselves in hundreds of times, and it will never not feel like coming home.

* * *

They’ve been making out for a long time, stretched out on the couch, Patrick on top of him and pressing him down into the cushions. David’s not quite sure when their lazy rocking together becomes more purposeful but suddenly Patrick is grinding into him, thighs slotted together until David tumbles over the edge.

When he opens his eyes, Patrick looks smug. “What?” he asks.

Patrick smirks. “Just wanted to prove I can still make my husband come in his pants.”

David narrows his eyes; it sounds like a challenge, and he’s pretty confident he can make Patrick lose control, too.

* * *

Sometimes David wakes up in the middle of the night with the fear that the last two and a half years have been a dream; that he’ll find himself in the uncomfortable twin bed of the motel, Alexis’ snoring breaking the silence, and their store will still be the general store — or worse, Christmas World.

It’s only ever a brief moment, though. Because Patrick will shift in his sleep, or his hand will brush over David's hip as he unconsciously pulls him closer, and David will remember that in his wildest dreams he could never have conjured up this life.

* * *

“Now that we’re married, there’s something serious we need to discuss.”

Patrick glances over in concern only to find David staring back at him with a face that is perfectly, painfully straight except for a slight twitch of his lips. He doesn’t know what the joke here is, yet, but he schools his own face to neutrality in anticipation. “Oh? What’s that, David?”

“We have got to do something about your skincare routine.”

Patrick blinks, then laughs. “I don’t have a skincare routine.”

“Exactly. And ten years from now, it will be very obvious.”

Patrick shakes his head. “Okay, David.”

* * *

“It would be good if we could get another pair of hands or two to help us this weekend,” Patrick murmurs, staring at the stack of boxes along the wall. “We’re not even close to packed and this is already looking like a ridiculous amount of work.”

David glances over from where he’s carefully wrapping Patrick’s mugs in newspaper. “If we give Stevie enough alcohol, she’ll probably help,” he offers. 

“You don’t think she’ll just help us out of the goodness of her heart?”

David laughs. “Have you met Stevie?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Patrick says. “I’ll set aside some wine.”

* * *

“Oh, you’ll have to ask my husband that question — he knows a lot more about it than I do.”

David’s head whips around at Patrick’s words. Sure, they’ve called each other husband, over and over, in bed and over a glass of wine and just because. But this is the first time he’s been referred to as such to someone else, and the words _my husband_ send a shiver down his spine.

He walks over, brushing his hand along Patrick’s lower back before he attends to the customer. Once they’ve purchased and left, he pulls Patrick into a deep kiss.

* * *

“What do you mean, you don't own a cheeseboard?”

Patrick shakes his head in that way that means he finds David equal parts ridiculous and endearing. “Can’t help thinking if a cheeseboard was that important it would have come up before now, David.”

David rolls his eyes, pulling out his phone to add to their shopping list. “There wasn't room in here for proper entertaining. Now we will.”

“I seem to recall fitting an entire housewarming party in here just fine.”

“Mm,” David says absently as he adds a cocktail shaker too. “Like I said. No room for _proper_ entertaining.” 

* * *

“Oh my god, I’m so sick of packing,” David grumbles, collapsing facedown on the bed. “If you want to have sex tonight, you’re going to have to do all the work.”

There’s a loud groan as Patrick flops down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe you think _I_ have the energy,” he says. “Whose stupid idea was it to do the move ourselves?”

“Technically, I think it was your budget’s idea, honey.”

“Ugh.” Patrick wriggles around, removing his belt, but seems to run out of steam after that. “I hate the budget.”

“Who _are_ you?”

* * *

“I’m going to miss this apartment.”

The words are uttered softly into the dark room, and David strokes a soothing hand down his husband's stomach. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Patrick’s next breath is shaky. “We had a lot of good times here.”

“Mm, yes we did,” David says, shimmying a little against the mattress and making Patrick laugh, which was his intention. Patrick presses a quick kiss to his palm.

“Patrick?” David says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Ray will try to convince the next tenants that the bathroom door is optional?”

Patrick laughs, burying his face in David's shoulder. “Probably.”

* * *

“Oh my god, moving is the worst.”

Patrick hums in response, running a soothing hand along the back of David’s neck as he sinks down next to him on the couch. David leans over, slotting into his side, and lets out a deep breath as he finally lets himself relax; every muscle in his body is screaming at him, and he knows it will only be worse tomorrow.

“Think we can sleep right here?” David mumbles.

“I’ve made the bed,” Patrick murmurs. “All we have to do is get up the stairs.”

David burrows in further. “Mmkay. One more minute.”

* * *

“Ugh, what the fuck? I am too old to sleep on the couch.”

Patrick blinks blearily at him as he sits up, red marks on his face from where he slept with it pressed up against the cushions. “Sorry, I’m still mostly asleep. Did you just admit to being old?”

David ignores him in favour of gripping the armrest, twisting his torso to try and crack the stiffness out of his spine. “Why didn’t we close the store today? Oh, my god, I’m so tired.”

Patrick scrubs a hand over his face. “Good thing we unpacked the espresso machine, huh?”

* * *

“Morning, gorgeous.”

David wakes up slowly, Patrick’s hands wandering softly along his chest. He hums in pleasure, wriggling back into his husband’s embrace.

“Someone’s awake,” he mumbles, and Patrick laughs.

“We’ve been here two whole nights and we haven’t christened the new place yet,” he murmurs in David's ear. His voice is still low and roughened from sleep, and it makes David groan. “I think it’s time to fix that, don't you?”

“Yeah,” David breathes, and Patrick nips him gently on his shoulder as his hands wander further south. “Patrick, please.”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Patrick says, and he does.

* * *

“Oh my god, I’m so fucking tired. Why are we still arguing about this?”

“God, I don’t know, David,” Patrick says as he sinks into the couch, his head in his hands. “But we need to figure this out. Literally every married couple at our wedding told us never to go to bed angry.”

“Mm. And have we considered that that's terrible advice?”

Patrick stares up at his husband, who is biting his lip. “What?”

“Look. We’re tired and cranky. Maybe we should just… take a nap? Talk about it later?”

It sounds sensible, when put like that. “Okay, David.”

* * *

“What are you watching?”

Patrick jumps, grabbing at the remote and hurriedly switching off the television before he stands up and turns to face David, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Nothing,” he says unconvincingly.

“Really.” David circles the couch with a predatory grin, leaning in to kiss Patrick just deeply enough to distract him before plucking the remote out of his hand. “Because it looked like…” he flicks the television back on and smirks as Patrick drops his reddened face into his hands. “This is what you get up to on your day off?”

“Not usually!”

“ _Sunrise Bay_ , Patrick. _Honestly_.” 

* * *

After dinner, Patrick pours them each a glass of red wine and threads the fingers of his free hand through David’s, tugging him out onto the back porch. It’s warm for fall and they sit on the bench seat in comfortable silence, David tucking himself under Patrick’s arm where he belongs as they gaze out over their yard.

“I’m so glad we stayed here,” David finally murmurs, breaking the long silence just as the sun is setting, brushing the garden with a hazy gold.

Patrick buries his lips in David’s hair. “I’m really glad you’re happy here, David,” he whispers.

* * *

“Oh, fuck.”

Patrick whips his head around as far as he can when he’s lying on his stomach with his wrists tied to the headboard, which isn’t all that far. “Always good to hear during sex,” he says tightly.

David scowls. “We’re out of lube.”

“How—” Patrick’s shoulders lurch like he’s trying to sit up before he remembers, flopping back onto the mattress. “How did we run out of lube?”

“I don’t know, I guess in the move it fell off our radar?”

Patrick sighs.

“Luckily,” David murmurs, “I can think of a few things I don't need lube for.”

* * *

David jolts awake to the sound of knocking on the front door. He stretches out his arm, hoping to nudge Patrick awake, but finds his side of the bed empty and cold. He stumbles downstairs, yanking open the front door only to find his missing husband standing in front of it, sheepishly holding his hiking pack.

“Forgot my keys,” he mumbles, and David crosses his arms. He’s sure the stern effect is ruined by his bed hair, but still.

“Honestly, Patrick. Do I need to write you a checklist for your hikes?”

Patrick quirks an eyebrow. “Ooh, I’m into that.”

* * *

“Mother _fucker!”_

Patrick jumps at the loud cry at the back before grimacing apologetically at the customer in front of him. “Sorry about that,” he murmurs as he finishes ringing her out, slipping her items into a tote bag. Once she’s gone Patrick heads for the back room, hovering in the doorway when he sees David with his index finger in his mouth, looking annoyed.

“You okay, David?”

David scowls — or tries to around his finger, at least. “Papercut,” he mumbles. “Should have worn your stupid rubber thingies.”

“Aww,” Patrick teases. “You want me to kiss it better?”

“Yes, please.”

* * *

David often arrives late to work but he’s not one for a long lunch break, which is why Patrick is a little concerned when he glances up at the clock and realises it’s been over an hour since David left. As soon as the store is empty he puts up the _back soon_ sign, locks the door and goes in search of his husband.

He doesn’t have to go far. He spots David next to the garden named after his mom, staring down at the flowers there.

“I miss them,” David murmurs, and Patrick wraps him into a wordless hug.

* * *

“Um, what is this?”

Patrick tilts his head. “It’s a danish, David.”

“I know it’s a danish,” David says carefully. “Why have you brought me a danish?”

Patrick blinks at him, just a little too guilelessly for it to be unrehearsed. “Twyla had baked them fresh, and I thought you might like one.”

“Mm,” David says slowly. “And this has nothing to do with the date.”

“Why, David, what’s the date?”

“Okay,” David replies with a scowl. “I know what this is, so why don’t you just come out and say it?”

Patrick smiles widely. “Happy one month anniversary, David.” 

* * *

“I’m sorry, you look _so_ familiar.”

David freezes at the statement blurted out by a customer. It’s been years since he was a paparazzi favourite, and he’s not exactly proud of the person he was then. Here in Schitt’s Creek it’s easy to forget about that part of his life, but—

“Oh my god, you’re on the town sign! In that sweater and everything!” The woman exclaims, and David wonders if maybe a TMZ circa 2014 fan wouldn’t have been preferable after all. 

Once she leaves, David turns to Patrick, scowling. 

“I’m going to have to burn this fucking sweater.”

* * *

David only vaguely remembers Friday nights in New York: hopped up on whatever the drug of choice was at the time, stumbling drunkenly out of clubs at closing with his arm wrapped around whoever he’d agreed to go home with. But what’s hardest to remember is how he ever believed he was happy in that life. Because this right here — tucked up in bed with Patrick’s head on his shoulder as they both read in contented silence, safe in the steadfast knowledge that they’ll wake up in each other's arms tomorrow morning — this is, without a doubt, the perfect life.

* * *

“Haven't seen this jacket in a while.”

David glances up from the bathroom mirror to find Patrick leaning against the doorframe, eyes raking up and down David’s body appreciatively. “Thought you only wore leather when you wanted to pull?”

“Oh, I’m definitely going to be pulling tonight,” David growls as he walks towards his husband, backing him against the wall and pinning him there. 

Patrick stares up at him, eyes dark, but he still tries to tease. “You think so, do you?”

“Mm.” David nips at Patrick’s neck, making him gasp. “I know a sure thing when I see one.” 

* * *

“Ugh, what the fuck. Does being married make hangovers worse?”

Patrick chuckles next to him, but to his credit he does so quietly. “Pretty sure that’s the dozen polar bear shots Stevie goaded you into drinking, actually,” he murmurs as he guides David into a sitting position, holding out a glass of water for him to take and then grabbing the painkillers from the bedside table. 

“Fucking Stevie,” he mutters as he swallows the pills and empties the glass in three long gulps. He tugs at Patrick’s arm until he takes the hint, crawling back into bed for more sleep.

* * *

Patrick looks around the table at their friends, all gathered around and ready to tuck into the feast laid out before them. And maybe it’s just the amount of wine he and David drank while cooking, but he’s feeling choked up with the love and gratitude he has for everyone in this room. Ray, who gave him a job and a room and a reason to stay; Stevie, who told David their date was, in fact, a date; Twyla, who brought him tea and a muffin every day in the wake of a disastrous barbecue.

And David. Always, always David.

* * *

“Okay, no. We can’t use the towels Stevie gave us as a sex towel,” David declares when Patrick walks into the room. 

Patrick looks down at it for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right, they’re too nice for that.”

“I don’t care about that," David scoffs. “It’s just weird.”

“It’s not like she’s going to know, David.”

“She’s our best friend! It’s weird!”

Patrick blinks slowly. “You’ve literally had sex with her.”

“Yes, and somehow that’s less weird than having sex on something she gave us!” David insists.

Patrick laughs, dropping a kiss on David's forehead. “I'll grab us another towel.”

* * *

“Shit. David, wake up, we’re running so late.”

“Mm? What?”

“I overslept. It’s nearly nine, come on, we have to go.”

David squints at him. _“You_ overslept? You. Patrick, you have an internal alarm I’m pretty sure is actual magic. How did you oversleep?”

Patrick barely looks at him as he buttons his shirt. “I don’t know, we were up late last night I guess.”

A grin stretches across David's face. “Are you telling me I fucked your internal clock out of you?”

Patrick tugs all the blankets off the bed at once, exposing him to the cold morning air.

* * *

David frowns as he walks through the door. Patrick is one of those people who spends his day off keeping busy and David usually gets home to dinner in the oven and his husband’s wide smile, but right now the house is dark and quiet. He had left Patrick sleeping this morning, which is unusual for him, and David feels nervousness pooling in his stomach. He climbs the stairs and enters the bedroom only to find Patrick asleep, his face flushed and used tissues scattered through the bed.

“Oh, honey,” David whispers as he sets about cleaning up the mess.

* * *

“David, my head hurts.”

David presses his palm to Patrick’s forehead and feels him relax into the touch immediately. “Shh, honey, I know,” he murmurs. “Try and get some more sleep, okay?”

Patrick gropes blindly at the bedside table until he finds the box of tissues, pulling one out before he blows his nose with possibly the most unattractive noise David has ever heard.

“Ugh,” he mumbles. “I’m so gross. This is so gross. David, I hate this.”

David leans over to press a kiss to one very clammy cheek. “You are gross,” he agrees. “But I love you anyway.”

* * *

“Your son is a terrible patient.”

Marcy’s warm, maternal laugh pours down the phone, and David smiles despite his bad mood. “My son, now, is he?”

“Mm, yes. When he’s like this he can be your son.”

“He’s always been like that,” Marcy says softly. “He hates feeling helpless.” She clears her throat, and David politely ignores how choked up she sounded towards the end of that sentence. “You know, he always used to love my tomato and basil soup when he was sick. I’ll send you the recipe.”

“Can I call you if I get stuck?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

* * *

“David, you should have put me in the guest bedroom. I don’t want to get you sick.”

David shakes his head with a small smile. “Don’t worry. I don't get sick.”

“What do you mean, you don’t get sick?”

“I don’t know,” David shrugs. “Just one of those immune systems, I guess. All those drugs had to be good for something.” 

Patrick chuckles stuffily. “Seriously, David, are you sure you’re okay to be in here?”

“I shared a motel room with Alexis even when she had a cold. If I didn’t catch anything from her, I’m sure this is fine.”

* * *

“What are you doing up?”

Patrick looks over from where he’s sitting on the end of the bed, lacing his boots. “Hey, you're awake,” he says. “I’m feeling a lot better, so you take the morning off. Go back to sleep, I can open the store.”

David studies him carefully. He _looks_ better, with no sign of the pallor of the last few days, and a nap is tempting. “Are you sure you’re better?”

Patrick leans over so he can card his fingers through David’s hair. “You took such good care of me, David,” he says. “See you at lunchtime.”

* * *

“God, I’ve missed this,” Patrick groans, rocking their hips together as he peels David’s sweater carefully over his head. David reaches out to return the favour but Patrick pushes him back onto the bed, pinning his wrists until David nods before he strips his own shirt off and tosses it into the corner with far less care than David’s clothes received. He kisses his way down David’s stomach slowly before he sets about unfastening his pants.

“Are you sure you’re up for— _fuck_ ,” David hisses as Patrick yanks his pants and underwear off.

“I am definitely up for _fuck_ , David.”

* * *

It’s been a long fucking day, and David is exhausted. And it was Patrick’s day off, which means David has dealt with the day from hell all on his own, and he’s feeling prickly and irritable by the time he steps through the door.

But Patrick takes one look at him and just wraps his arms tight around David’s back, pulling him close and wrapping him in love, his fingers stroking soothingly down his spine until David relaxes into his grip. David is safe, and he’s loved, and he’s seen — and that knowledge more than anything makes it all okay.

* * *

Patrick wakes up freezing. He doesn’t understand why, at first, but then he looks over at David to find that his husband has managed to bundle himself up like a cocoon in the bedsheets they’re supposed to share. He does try to unwrap David without waking him, but when he can’t ease the blankets out from under David’s body he just yanks at them until they’re free.

David barely stirs as Patrick gets the covers back in something resembling a sensible place, but as soon as he lays down again David is clinging to Patrick as his new heat source.

* * *

“Huh.”

David glances up at the deliberately even tone to find Patrick looking down at his phone, face blank. 

“Everything okay?” he asks carefully.

Patrick nods, still staring at his screen. “Yeah. Um. Rachel’s engaged?”

It’s not often that David is truly lost for words, but he has no idea what to say to that. “Oh,” he manages finally. “Are you…”

Patrick looks up at him then, eyes wide. “I’m happy for her, David. It just caught me off guard, I guess.” 

“We should send her a gift basket,” David says.

Patrick smiles softly at him. “That’s a great idea.”

* * *

“Just making sure I understand this,” Patrick says with a laugh as they approach Twyla’s front door, supplies in hand for what has been promised to be a riveting game night. “The man who brings hand sanitiser on a picnic, who thinks double-dipping sauce is the worst crime someone can commit at the dinner table, is perfectly willing to drink out of a communal punch bowl?”

David places both hands on Patrick’s shoulders and looks deep into his eyes as though he’s about to impart some great wisdom. “Honey,” he says seriously, lips twitching with mirth. “Alcohol is a _disinfectant_.”

* * *

“I just don't understand _how_ ,” David says for at least the sixth time since Patrick unwittingly dropped a bombshell over dinner. “How did you never—”

“Maybe this is one of those age difference things,” Patrick says with a grin, just to enjoy the way David scowls at him across the table.

“It is _not_ ,” he hisses. “Everyone should have— how could you not— I'm going to _call your mother_ ,” he says finally. “This was a grievous oversight.”

Patrick tries not to laugh out loud at the disgruntled look on David's face. “David, should we watch _The Princess Bride_ tonight?”

“Obviously.”

* * *

“David, what is this?”

David glances up in confusion at the disgust in his husband's voice to find Patrick brandishing a jar, a deep frown etched between his eyebrows.

David tilts his head, puzzled. “You’re the one who put it on the list.”

“Mayo!” Patrick shouts in a tone last heard after an unfortunate miscommunication over a massage. “Mayo was on the list, not… this.”

“Um,” David still isn’t sure what the issue is. “I mean, that’s basically mayo? Do you have a particular brand you get or something?”

“Basically mayo,” Patrick repeats faintly. “David, no. Miracle Whip is _incorrect_.”

* * *

Patrick doesn’t remember making an active decision to let his hair grow out. But somewhere deep down he noticed that when he went too long between haircuts David’s dexterous fingers would find their way to his scalp more often, stroking absentmindedly while they watched television or lay in bed reading. So after one appointment, he just… didn’t make another.

David doesn’t say anything, though his hands keep threading almost unconsciously into Patrick’s hair. Patrick is almost starting to wonder if David hasn’t noticed when a bottle of shampoo especially for curly hair appears in their shower as if by magic.

* * *

“Do you think it's weird that we don't get sick of each other?”

Patrick blinks in confusion, the question coming seemingly out of nowhere. “What do you mean?”

David shrugs. “Like, we work together, and we’re married, and apart from when you’re doing the baseball we mostly socialise together too. Is that weird? Should we be sick of each other?”

Patrick walks over to where David is fidgeting behind the counter, sliding his arms around David's waist. “I don't think it’s a bad thing to like the man I married,” he says with a grin, tugging David into a kiss.

* * *

“David? What are you doing?”

Patrick's sleepy voice cuts through the dark, making David freeze. “Um, nothing?”

There’s a long silence. He almost thinks Patrick might have dozed off again, but then: “Were you jerking off?” His voice is syrupy and barely awake, but somehow still laced with amusement.

“You were asleep, and I was— you know.” He turns, hand still in his pyjama pants, just able to make out Patrick's fuzzy shape in the dark. “But now that you're awake…” he trails off hopefully.

Patrick heaves a deep sigh. “I wish. Too tired. Think of me.”

David always does.

* * *

“This is weird.”

Patrick shoots him a look across the table. “I think it’s nice,” he says. “Twyla’s obviously put a lot of work in for the grand reopening.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t nice!” David protests. A change in decor and colour scheme has made a phenomenal difference, and he wonders idly how much money Twyla had to sink into the place to get it looking decent. “It’s just very weird to have a menu that doesn't cover the entire table when I open it.”

“Oh, mozzarella sticks are still on the menu,” Patrick grins. “Shall we order some?”

* * *

The way Patrick moans around his mouthful of a chicken burrito bowl is borderline pornographic. “You work magic with that slow cooker, David,” he says when he finally swallows, and David flushes with pleasure. “Remind me to send Aunt Linda some flowers sometime.”

Even though he’s fizzing at the compliment, his instinct is still to deflect it. “It’s not like I really do anything,” he shrugs. “Just throw all the ingredients into it.”

Patrick shakes his head. “Don’t talk shit about my husband like that,” he says. “He’s amazing.”

“Are you angling for me to cook more?”

“Maybe,” Patrick grins.

* * *

The second time David wakes up, the sheets tangled around his naked torso, Patrick’s side of the bed is empty. It takes him a moment to realise that it was probably the smell of coffee that roused him and he pulls on his sweatpants and t-shirt from where they were discarded on the floor earlier this morning before he wanders out to the living room, yawning.

Patrick looks up from the couch when he comes in with a soft smile. “Morning, gorgeous,” he says huskily, setting down his tea as David leans over to kiss him.

The coffee can wait.

* * *

“But I don’t want to.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, unmoved. “You were the one who suggested we trade off months for vendor visits, David. It’s your turn.”

“Yes, but I made that suggestion in summer, when getting out of bed didn’t mean freezing to death.”

“You realise it’s going to be much colder next month when it’s my turn, right? No sympathy.”

David peeks up at him hopefully. “Rock paper scissors for it?”

“Absolutely not,” Patrick shakes his head with a slight smile. “But I promise I’ll cook something really nice for dinner if you get up now.”

“Ugh, fine.”

* * *

“Jenga, Scrabble… can you play Monopoly with two people?”

David’s laugh is warm behind him. “Honey, I love you, but there’s no way our marriage would survive Monopoly,” he says simply. “Ooh, what about Battleship?”

“Battleship it is.” He pulls the box out and sets up on the coffee table, David sitting opposite him with his legs crossed. He’s so beautiful it still takes Patrick’s breath away sometimes, and an old pang of insecurity rears up before he can stop it.

“Are we boring, playing board games on a weeknight?”

David smiles softly at him. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

* * *

“Trick or treat!”

Patrick grins at two sheriffs, a robot, and a ghost as he hands them each a candy bar. “Happy Hallowe’en, guys,” he says, getting a chorus of _thank yous_ in return before the kids march down the steps and onto the next house. There’s a parent hovering at the end of the driveway who raises their hand in acknowledgement, and Patrick waves back before he shuts the door behind him.

“Any interesting costumes?” David calls from the living room, making Patrick laugh.

“None that were up to your standards, David.”

David sighs dramatically. “I live in hope.”

* * *

“Hey, come try this.”

Patrick moves closer to David at his words as though tugged by an invisible thread; any excuse be near David he’ll take. “Try what?”

Instead of answering David caps the bottle in his hand with his fingers before tilting it, and then he dabs his fingertips softly under Patrick’s jaw. It smells woody, maybe a little bit of citrus, but then David is burying his face in Patrick’s neck to inhale deeply and Patrick stops thinking altogether.

“Mm, I like that,” David rumbles against his skin, and Patrick wonders if they can close for ten minutes.

* * *

“What are you watching?”

Patrick looks up in surprise, but he doesn’t move his hand and he doesn’t pause the video, the loud moans and skin slapping together pouring out of the speaker. “You’re home early,” he says.

“Mm.” He’s not, but he doesn’t want to get distracted with conversation right now. “Mind if I join you?” he asks, already peeling off his sweater in anticipation.

“Please, David,” Patrick breathes, which is all the confirmation David needs to strip off the rest of his clothes and settle in next to Patrick, picking up the lube from where Patrick dropped it.

* * *

“Why are you like this?” 

Patrick laughs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. No one should look this good under fluorescent lighting, and David will be cursing this unfairness for the rest of his life. 

“Like what, David?”

“You know what,” David mutters, pulling the stuffed bear a little closer despite himself. “We’re _married_. I’m a sure thing. There’s no need for all this.”

Patrick shakes his head, his smile softening. “I’m not trying to woo you, David—”

“Please never say _woo_ again.”

“I just like getting you gifts.”

David squeezes his eyes shut. “Just say it.”

“Happy two month anniversary.”

* * *

Sometimes Patrick still marvels at how easy it all is, with David. Which is not to say that they don’t fight, or get frustrated with each other, or have tough days — but even then, when things are tense and horrible and uncomfortable, it never feels difficult. Patrick is secure in their love for each other, and he knows they’ll always find their way back.

As for the rest of the time… it’s so easy. It’s easy to reach out and touch, it’s easy to kiss and tease, and it’s easy to sink down between his husband’s legs with a smirk.

* * *

“So, my mom wants to know what our plans are for Christmas.”

David looks over at him with a small smile. “We should go see them. You haven’t had a holiday with your parents in a while.”

“But what about your family?” he asks, but David just shrugs.

“They’ve co-opted us for a couple of years now. It’s probably time for the Brewers to get a turn.”

“Are you sure?”

David nods. “I’ve heard amazing things about Clint Brewer’s eggnog, honey. You can’t keep me away from that forever.”

Patrick laughs. “Of course not, David,” he says with a kiss.

* * *

When it comes to their store, David knows what is and isn’t correct. The Great Toilet Plunger Incident of 2016 might have ended on a high note, all things considered, but still. He knows where things should go, he knows what is and isn’t appropriate for display, and he knows what sort of music should be played in a curated retail environment. When it comes to the latter, Patrick’s indie pop preferences are simply _incorrect_.

Which David would _happily_ tell him, if he didn’t look so goddamn cute moving around the store and singing along to the songs he’s playing.

* * *

Grass is green, water is wet, and David will never be a morning person. Patrick knows this, but he can’t bring himself to mind if it means that for the rest of his life he’ll get to wake up to see David asleep beside him, his usually expressive face soft and relaxed. 

This is what he wanted, for longer than he’s ever admitted to David: their rings on each other’s hands, the promise of many more mornings just like this one, stretching out for all the years ahead of them.

“Love you,” he breathes, and David smiles in his sleep.

* * *

One of the first things they discovered when they moved into this place was that the shower in the ensuite fits two grown men very comfortably. They don’t take advantage of this often, mostly because a shared shower always ends up running far longer than intended, but sometimes the promise of one is the best way to get David out of bed.

Not that Patrick’s complaining as he kneels on the tile, shower spray hitting his back as he looks up at David, who is looking down at him with wide, dark eyes.

They can open a few minutes late.

* * *

“If I die, I’m going to come back and haunt you just to make sure you don’t make any aesthetic changes to the store.”

Patrick rolls his eyes as if he thinks David is being ridiculous. Which is patently unfair, because only one of them has experienced this particular horror before and it isn't Patrick. “Going to the Schitts’ for dinner is not going to kill you, David. They invited us, it would have been rude to say no,” he says, voice even.

David huffs, making his disdain evident. “Well, I hope you feel comfortable explaining that to my ghost.”

* * *

David doesn’t know how late it is; he lost track of time somewhere between the movie finishing and their second joint. Stevie's feet are curled up on his lap, her hair fanned out on the armrest of the couch where she’s dozed off, breathing softly. Patrick is plastered to his other side, one hand moving lazily through David’s hair while the other draws soft circles on his thigh. These are his two favourite people in the world, here on this couch with him, and he loves them, and he loves that they love each other.

He’s just so goddamn happy.

* * *

“David, fuck—”

A loud thumping sound makes Patrick jump, and his grip tightens involuntarily in David’s hair as David freezes.

“Oh my god, can you two shut the fuck up while you have guests?” Stevie yells, slightly muffled through the door, and Patrick stares down in horror as David pulls away, eyes wide.

“Um,” David says slowly. “Did you… also forget that she stayed here last night?”

Patrick can feel the flush creeping up his neck. “I might have.”

David sighs as he sits up. “Could have been worse. At least she didn’t walk in like at the wedding reception.”

* * *

David has slept with more people than he'll ever remember — group sex and kinky sex and inadvisable positions. If it’s on Urban Dictionary, he’s probably tried it at least once. But he’s never known intimacy like this, standing side by side in their bathroom as they work through their night routine, moving around each other with the practised ease of people who have done this hundreds of times. Patrick gives him a cheesy grin around the toothbrush in his mouth before he spits, and David leans in to lick a fleck of minty toothpaste from the corner of his mouth.

* * *

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fucking fuck!”

Patrick goes running into the back room at the barrage of swearing, grateful that there are no customers in the store, only to be greeted by the delectable sight of David peeling off his sweater. Once it’s over his head, though, the reason for both the strip show and the swearing becomes obvious — it’s covered in what looks like body milk.

“The fucking bottle smashed in the box,” David scowls when he sees Patrick. “It leaked all over me. Can you soak this in the sink for me?”

Patrick takes the sweater carefully. “Of course.”

* * *

When Patrick gets home, the sharp smell of nail polish hangs in the air. “Hi, honey,” David says absently, his attention focused on the brush in his hand. 

Patrick leans over the back of the couch to press a gentle kiss to his husband’s head. “Nice colour,” he says appreciatively as David wiggles his fingers, the pale blue shimmering a little under the light.

“Someone made me fond of blue,” David says as he blows gently on the polish, and Patrick is struck with a sudden urge.

“Could you…” he starts, unsure.

David blinks, then he smiles softly. “Come sit.”

* * *

“Oh my god, Patrick, are you okay?”

Patrick stares up at him from the floor, stunned. David is considering reaching for his phone to find out how to check for concussion when Patrick starts laughing so hard he’s wheezing, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes as he sits up, seemingly unbothered by his nakedness. Now that he knows Patrick’s all right David can’t help laughing too, even as he reaches out a hand to haul Patrick to his feet.

“Right,” Patrick says finally. “You want to try that again, without flinging me off the bed this time?”

* * *

“David,” he hears his name being whispered harshly. “David, come here.”

Frowning, David puts down his book and follows the sound of Patrick’s voice through to the kitchen, where he’s standing in front of the sink. For a moment he thinks Patrick is upset but then he wraps an arm around David’s waist, pulling him close enough that his lips are pressed up against David’s ear. “Look,” he murmurs, pointing.

David follows the line of his finger out the kitchen window. There, bathed in the glow the house lights are casting on the lawn, is a fearless rabbit watching them.

* * *

“Your parents sent us a postcard,” David says as he flicks through the mail. It’s horrifically cheesy — _Greetings from Vancouver Island!_ splashed across it in an outdated font and garish colours — and he knows Patrick will love it. He hands it over without reading the note on the back, but Patrick scans it with a smile.

“Sounds like they’re having a great time,” he says. He flips over to the front again, before glancing at David and then sliding it casually into a drawer.

That night, when Patrick is asleep, David gets up and sticks the postcard to the fridge.

* * *

“What are you doing on my side of the bed?”

David burrows further under the covers. “Nothing,” he mumbles, smiling to himself.

“Uh huh,” Patrick says, disbelieving. “Well, why don’t you roll on over so I can get back into bed, then?”

“You can go on my side,” David says. “I’m comfortable.”

There’s a long silence. “David,” Patrick says finally.

David pokes his head out from under the blanket only to see Patrick looking knowingly at him. “Yes?” 

“There’s come on your side, isn’t there.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question.

David hums. “Maybe.”

“You're lucky I love you.”

* * *

“What the hell was that?” 

David pulls the blankets down just far enough to reveal his face. “What was what?” he asks blearily. Patrick holds his hand up and they sit in silence for a moment.

“Some weird beep,” he says when he doesn’t hear it again. “Doesn’t matter. Go back to sleep, David.”

Patrick is just dozing off again when another high chirp makes his eyes snap open. “Okay, nope,” he mutters, shoving his feet into his slippers before making his way downstairs. 

He finally traces the noise to the smoke detector, changing the batteries so he can sleep.

* * *

“David, David, hey.”

David blinks awake, heart racing, to see Patrick hovering over him with wide, concerned eyes.

“There he is,” he says softly, as though he’s trying not to scare him. “You okay? You were having a nightmare.”

It’s only at Patrick’s words that he realises he’s breathing heavily, his hands clenched into fists. “I don’t remember,” he says, fighting to control his breath.

Patrick lays a soothing hand over his heart. “Probably for the best,” he says. “It was just a dream, David. I’m here.”

“You’re always here,” David whispers, and Patrick smiles at him.

“Yeah, I am.”

* * *

When he lived in New York, David’s apartment had a carefully curated aesthetic: minimalist monochrome, no hint of personality at all. That was what everyone was doing, back then.

By contrast, the cottage bursts with colour. There’s art on the walls, and Patrick’s guitar finds a home alongside David’s collection of art books, and there’s a signed sports jersey framed and hanging in the guest bedroom for reasons David will never understand no matter how many times Patrick tries to explain.

It's nothing at all like he would have imagined his home being, and yet somehow it's everything he wants.

* * *

“All I’m saying is, it’s boring to kids,” Stevie says over her third glass of wine. Somehow Jocelyn managed to rope her into attending a careers day, and apparently the teenagers didn’t show much interest in owning a motel group. 

“Then again, I had no goals at that age,” Stevie continues. “Patrick, you must have had a plan.”

David turns to face him, surprised to realise he doesn’t know what job Patrick dreamed of as a kid, only to see his husband blush.

“I wanted to be a fireman,” he says finally, and David and Stevie both _awww_ at him.

* * *

“So why didn’t you become a firefighter?” David asks him the next day, when there’s a lull in customers and Patrick is facing stock. “If that’s what you were thinking about in high school?”

Patrick winces, keeping his back to David as he answers. “I, um, wrote up a risk versus reward list and realised it wasn’t sensible,” he says finally. He waits for David to laugh, but instead there’s a long silence before a pair of arms wrap around his waist from behind; David can be quiet when he wants to be.

“Well, I’m glad you studied business instead.”

* * *

“Patrick, please, fuck— _seriously?”_

“That wasn’t— I didn't do that,” Patrick says as David feels the promise of an orgasm ebb away. He can feel Patrick grip the base of the toy, and hears the telltale click of the switch, but nothing happens.

“Um,” Patrick says finally. “I think the battery might have died.”

“Nonconsensual edging from a butt plug,” David says, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Not how I was hoping my evening would go.”

Patrick leans over, kissing the pout off his face. “Well,” he says with a smirk. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way, won't we?”

* * *

“Goddamn fucking stupid lawnmower,” Patrick mutters as he stomps through the house, making David look up in surprise. He can count the number of times he’s heard Patrick say _fuck_ outside the bedroom (or the shower, or the stockroom at the store, or the back of his old car) on one hand, and it makes him snap to attention.

“Everything okay?” he calls out.

Patrick pokes his head around the door, looking dishevelled — and not in a sexy way. “That shitty starter motor is acting up again,” he growls.

“Buying something secondhand from Roland _might_ have been a mistake, honey.”

* * *

Patrick comes home far later than David expected, kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his jacket at the door before collapsing onto the couch with a loud groan. He’s been out doing vendor visits all day and he looks exhausted, so David decides not to hurry him towards the dinner table and instead walks over to the couch, lifting up Patrick’s legs so he can slide underneath them to sit. Then he wraps his hand around one of Patrick’s feet, kneading at the ball of his foot.

“I thought touching feet was incorrect,” Patrick mumbles.

“Don't remind me.”

* * *

_“Hic!”_

David jumps as Patrick lets yet another hiccup loose. He’s tried drinking a glass of water, and holding his breath, and asking David to scare him, but so far nothing seems to have worked. David tries to tell himself that as annoying as he’s finding it, Patrick is probably more irritated right now. 

“Think about bald men,” David reads off his phone, and Patrick stares at him. 

_“Hic!_ What?”

“Bald men,” he continues. “Picture the bald men you know. Um, your uncle Doug? Why is no one bald in this town?”

There’s a long silence.

“Holy shit, that worked.”

* * *

“David, oh my god, how are your feet so cold?”

David mumbles something into the pillow, trying to worm his feet in between Patrick’s legs again before Patrick snatches them back, hissing at the temperature. “David, seriously. Put some socks on or something.”

“But I have to get out of bed to get socks,” David groans. “Shouldn’t my husband be taking care of me?”

“Marriage of equals, David,” Patrick says, pulling the blankets tighter around himself. “You’re a modern, independent man who can get his own socks.”

“Ugh.” David flings the blankets off himself. “We should invest in underfloor heating.”

* * *

Before he asked Rachel to marry him, Patrick asked his dad what the secret to a happy marriage was. For a moment it looked like he was going to get a joke in return — that Brewer humour Patrick inherited — but he must have reconsidered, because instead he said: _If you both think the other person is doing slightly more in the relationship, you’ll try to match them, and you’ll make each other happy._

David has said, many times, that Patrick takes care of him. But Patrick has never been able to explain all the ways David looks after him, too.

* * *

The thing about Patrick is that he has talented hands. Anyone who’s ever heard him play the guitar knows that (so, most of the town at this point), but only David is privileged enough to know the more personal ways he can use them. Not just for sex — although definitely that too — but how fingers trailing down David’s spine can calm him, how a soft hand through his hair can make him feel loved, how a squeeze of his hand can keep him grounded when he’s starting to spiral. 

But yes. He also uses those hands to take David apart.

* * *

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Patrick blinks awake only to find David propped up beside him, tense and trembling. He’s seen that expression before, he’s sure of it, though in his half-asleep state it takes him a moment to remember before it slams into him.

“David, hey, it’s okay,” he says softly. “Go take a shower, okay? I’ll sort this out.” 

By the time David emerges the sheets are changed, with a higher quality mattress protector underneath them than last time. “I’m sorry,” David murmurs, and Patrick shakes his head.

“Just don't divorce me and it’s fine.”

* * *

They spend their day off decorating the Christmas tree, squabbling good-naturedly about the merits of aesthetically pleasing decorations (David) versus a mishmash of nonsense (Patrick). Once the wreath goes on the door David assumes they’re done, but then Patrick reaches into the box to pull out one more item.

“Is that my dad’s menorah?” David asks, shocked.

Patrick nods. “He gave it to me a few days before they left,” he says. “He said he could get a new one in LA, and we should keep this. Hanukkah starts tonight, right?”

David nods.

“Want to show me what to do?”

* * *

“Okay. Let’s get it out of the way.”

Patrick turns wide eyes on him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, David.”

“Are we really going to play this game every month?” David asks. “We both know it’s been three months, and I know you’ve got something for me, so why don’t we just skip past the waiting and you can give it to me now?”

“You want me to _give it to you now?”_ Patrick says with a half-wink and a laugh.

“Always.”

“Well, no time for that,” Patrick says brightly. “Your gift’s at the store. Let’s go.”

* * *

“Fuck!”

“David?” Patrick calls, concerned. There's a moment of silence in which Patrick wonders whether he should go and check his husband isn’t prone on the floor before he appears at the top of the stairs, towel flung around his waist and hair full of shampoo.

“The hot water ran out,” he scowls, and Patrick winces.

“Want me to rinse that out for you?” he asks. “I can boil the kettle.”

David bites his lip, then nods. Which is how they find themselves in the kitchen, Patrick mixing water until it's an acceptable temperature before David leans over the sink.

* * *

At the beginning of their relationship, they grabbed whatever privacy they could get; often that privacy took the shape of Patrick’s car, parked on the side of the road between Schitt’s Creek and Elmdale while they explored. After Patrick got his own apartment they had all the privacy they needed, and now they're homeowners with multiple rooms to have sex in if they want to.

But sometimes, it's nice to reminisce a little.

“I’m a married man,” Patrick laughs as David unzips his fly. 

David smirks at him. “I think I can give your husband a run for his money.”

* * *

“Oh my god, Patrick!”

That tone can mean anything from _we’ve run out of toothpaste_ to _please get rid of this bug,_ so Patrick doesn’t rush into the bathroom. When he gets there David is staring into the mirror, his eyes wide.

“Patrick, please tell me this is not a grey hair,” he cries, gesturing vaguely towards his head. Patrick looks at the area in question for a moment before he answers.

“I can’t see anything,” he says slowly. “But David, you’re—” 

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just saying,” Patrick smiles. “I’ll love you even when you’re — _eventually_ — old and grey.”

* * *

“Did you eat my thin mints?”

Patrick glances over his shoulder from his position in front of the stove. “I don’t like them, David, you know that. Can’t you find them?”

“They’re not here,” David grumbles. “I know they were here a few days ago, and now I can’t find them anywhere.”

“Ah,” Patrick says, loathe to point out the obvious. “And have you seen them since the last time Stevie was here and we were all smoking?”

David turns slowly, the understanding dawning on his face. “That little—” 

“We should really invest in a lock for when she’s around.”

* * *

“Patience, David,” Patrick murmurs as he trails his fingers gently down David’s stomach. “Be good for me. Be patient.”

David arches up, pulling against the restraints. “When have you ever known me to be patient?” he tries to snark, but the fact that it comes out in a breathy gasp probably lessens the impact somewhat.

“I’ve known you to be good, though,” Patrick says, and David tries and fails to hide the way it makes him shiver. “You can keep being good for me, can’t you? You can let me decide what you get, and when?”

“Yes, Patrick.”

“Good boy.”

* * *

Most days, Patrick gets up as soon as he’s awake. Then there are the days when he wakes David up with his lips and his hands and his tongue until they’re tangled together under the sheets — those are good days.

David’s very favourite mornings, though, are rare but special. Sometimes, on their shared day off, Patrick can be persuaded to stay in bed. Maybe he goes to make coffee and tea but otherwise they stay curled up together, reading or talking or just lying in comfortable silence, not needing anything but the feel of each others’ bodies pressing close together.

* * *

David staggers through the door looking frazzled and upset, and Patrick immediately leaps up off the couch and rushes over to him.

“David, are you okay?” he asks, but David just shakes his head before he buries his face in Patrick’s shoulder. Patrick brings his arms up to wrap around the soft sweater his husband is wearing, and waits for him to find the words.

“There were moths at the door,” David mumbles finally, and Patrick lets out a breath of understanding.

“Oh, David, I’m sorry. I thought I was being helpful, leaving the porch light on. I didn’t think.”

* * *

“What are you working on, David?”

David starts a little, but he turns around with a smile. “Just starting to narrow down some options for our honeymoon,” he says.

Patrick grins at him. “All right, let’s see the moodboard,” he says, holding out his hand, but to his surprise David hesitates.

“There’s, um, no moodboard yet,” he says as he hands over his tablet.

Patrick blinks. “This is a spreadsheet.” 

“Yeah,” David murmurs. “I got the total honeymoon savings from the shared budget spreadsheet, so I could see where we could afford.”

“I have never been more attracted to you.”

* * *

“Oh my god, I’m so glad I married you,” David groans as he takes a bite of Patrick’s homemade pizza.

Patrick smiles softly at him. “Me too, David,” he says, leaning in for a kiss even though David’s still chewing.

“Wait, wait, let me swallow first.”

“Oh, I’ll always let you swallow,” Patrick says with a smirk that makes David’s stomach burn hot.

“You’re insatiable,” he laughs, but Patrick just shrugs. 

“I’m never going to get enough of you, David.”

David lets his eyes flicker between his plate and his husband before he makes a decision.

The pizza can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Come and find me on [Tumblr](http://yourbuttervoicedbeau.tumblr.com/).


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